


Shadows of Autumn: A Mystrade Ghost Story

by tardisswimmingpool



Category: BBC Sherlock, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade - Fandom, Mystrade - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:09:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5026045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisswimmingpool/pseuds/tardisswimmingpool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holmes family buys a house on auction where years ago a young boy named Gregory was killed when a rope swing snapped near a lake in the forest. Upon hearing the story, Mycroft develops some uneasiness and feels as though the ghost boy is trying to reach him somehow when weird occurrences begin to swarm him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows of Autumn: A Mystrade Ghost Story

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something I'm trying out for fun for the season. I'm not sure if I'm going to go for a friendship story or a love story. A love story from beyond the grave sounds kinda fun actually but idk friendship is more likely. I'm not sure how long it's gonna be either, but this is the start and I hope you guys like it :)

The house was ghastly and run-down, nothing worth blinking an eye at if you were to drive past on the country road that slithered its way through the overgrown grass. My parents bought it on auction, a chance for a new beginning my father told my brother and I, although I consider it more of a midlife crisis on his part. He got it cheap, intending to fix it up, but it was clear even to him that the job was a little more difficult than the auctioneer had made it sound.

We were located nearly an hour from the nearest grocery store and the only other houses, our new neighbors, were spread apart by large patches of grass, and it would take a short hike to pay a visit for a cup of sugar. Nevertheless, the Harris family took the liberty of making the trip to meet us upon our arrival. 

My father grunted as he lugged our bags out of the truck and declined the offer of Mr. Harris to help carry them into the house. My mother was making small talk with Mrs. Harris while Sherlock and I investigated the yard. Hanging from a tree nearby was a tire swing held on by a fraying rope that appeared as though it would snap if anyone were to put too much pressure on the tire. While Sherlock wandered off with his magnifying glass to examine the trail of ants he spotted heading towards the woods, I listened in to the conversation my mom was having with the other woman. 

The house had been vacant for awhile-three years maybe. It was an old building, had been there since the 40’s, but it wasn’t kept up in the years it was empty and seemed a lot worse than it had been. Prior to our coming, Mrs. Harris had granted us the favor of cleaning up on the inside so that we wouldn’t be living in a dustpile-the outside remained a wreck though with the paint peeling from exposure to the elements. She apologized for the government didn’t think much of people out there, most renovations were done by the homeowners themselves. 

“But it’s not so bad. I mean, the outside looks kinda rough. We were going to get that taken care of, but you guys came a little earlier than expected.”

“It’s alright,” my mother said, “My husband was looking forward to fixing the place up anyway.”

Mrs. Harris nodded, but added cheerfully, “Well, regardless, like I said, we fixed up the inside for ya,” she said, “ Had the electrician come out and rewire things. They had been disconnected awhile back, but it’s all taken care of now. The plumber came out, got running water, the stove is a little old, so you might want to invest in a new one, but other than that….”

My mother was grateful for the courtesy, and assured her that we would do as soon as we could make the trip. We’d have to drive nearly two hours to reach a store where we could purchase one, so she wasn’t too pleased, but it was better than nothing. 

A final heave told me that my father had completed his task of lugging our stuff into the house. He wiped his brow and looked out at his wife and kids and neighbors with pride. 

“Well, let’s get settled in, shall we?”

The Harris couple stayed for dinner. They had brought over a chicken breast and some roasted vegetables that they heated up in the microwave we had brought from our old house-since the stove wasn’t to be trusted. 

“You have a beautiful family,” Mrs. Harris told my mother while their husbands talked amongst themselves on the couch. 

“Thank you,” my mother said, “You have kids?”

Mrs. Harris was an older woman, not elderly but in her early 60s perhaps. She smiled and revealed they had grown up and moved to the city. 

“Jessica, my eldest. She comes back every now and again, but her brother doesn’t want anything to do with the place anymore.”

“Why not?”

She hesitated. 

“I didn’t want to tell you this before you settled in. I assume they didn’t mention it at the auction.”

“Mention what?” my mother’s voice showed concern. 

I had been reading in my bean bag chair in the corner, but the conversation sparked my interest and I looked up. Sherlock paid no mind and continued playing with his chemistry set. 

“The family that used to live here. They moved out many seasons ago. Had a couple of folks move in and out in that time, but they stopped coming around three years ago.”

“What happened?”

“When my son was mhm...probably fifteen-same age as your son over there, I presume. He had a friend who lived in this house with his family. His name was Gregory. Nice boy, very smart, and adventurous too. There’s a clearing in the woods where a lake is. The boys used to swim in that lake. They tied a rope to a tree branch and would use it to swing and jump into the water. One day Jeffrey, my son, he got himself a head cold and I didn’t want him going out because it was getting chilly and no doubt he would get hypothermia in that water. But Gregory wanted to go for a dip. So he set out that morning by himself, wearing nothing but his swim trunks. I watched from the porch, thinking to myself, ‘that boy is going to get himself pneumonia.’ But Gregory didn’t seem bothered by the wind that nipped at his shoulders and waved to me, a gesture I returned hesitantly. I should’ve done something to stop him, but he went along on his merry way into the woods. I assume he didn’t let go quick enough and the rope swung back and snapped. He fell and hit his head on a rock, cracked his skull wide open.”

“That’s awful,” my mom was horrified, “Did they find him in time?”

“He had left while his parents were napping that morning, nobody saw where he was going. His mother went looking for him because he had never been out past sundown. She figured he lost track of time when he was trekking through the woods, so she took a flashlight and went out in search of him. She found him unconscious by the rocks, he was dead. Fifteen years old.”

“What did she do?” 

“She and her husband buried him back in the woods next to an old tree he used to climb. There wasn’t a funeral. A couple of us neighbors came over to pay our respects, but other than that there was no ceremony. The couple stayed at the house for a few years but moved out when Gregory’s sister was old enough to go to grade school. Nobody’s been in the house very long since.”

Gruesome images played in my head of a boy my age shivering alone in the woods and bleeding to death. Talk about a nightmarish way to die. The thought of it made my stomach churn. 

“Myc,” Sherlock had finally abandoned his beakers and crawled over on his knees, “Did that woman just say someone died in this house?”

“In the woods, but yea...creepy eh?”

“You think the house is haunted?” his tone was mocking which was degrading given I was seven years his senior. “Scared?”

I ignored him. 

The Harrises left after sunset, and we watched their headlights disappear over the hill. My mother led us to what would be Sherlock’s and my bedroom. The beds were nothing but a frame due to the mattresses being tossed early that year, so we were forced to sleep on the floor. I set up my sleeping bag on the far side of the room by the window whereas Sherlock took the spot near the door-I envisioned my mom entering and his face getting smacked. The thought was satisfying to me. 

That night was sleepless. I kept thinking about the boy that had died out in the forest. Despite my hatred to admit weakness, my brother wasn’t wrong to accuse me of being uneasy. I’m not saying I believe in ghosts or anything, but it definitely felt heavy in the room and I knew without a doubt that this had been Gregory’s room when he was alive. Nobody had to tell me, I could just tell. 

“Sherlock,” I whispered to my brother but he was fast asleep, either that or he was ignoring me which was also entirely possible. 

I sat awake on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, unable to close my eyes for a nagging feeling in my gut kept telling me something was coming. My heart raced in my chest as I lay vulnerable to the ringing silence. Suddenly there was a thud at the window. 

Sherlock remained motionless, unaffected by the sudden noise. I, however, sat up to peer over the windowsill. I don’t know what I was expecting to find. Maybe the face of a lonely boy staring back at me, desperate to come inside and escape the front that was approaching. Perhaps meeting firsthand his skull mashed in, blood dripping. The thought, as horrifying as it may be...well, at the time, it never occurred to me to visualize anything else. I shivered and realized my eyes were closed. A breath escaped my lips and my sight appeared again, revealing nothing more than a rock on the ground outside the window. I had to open the window to see it and the cool Autumn air entered the room, causing Sherlock to shuffle in his sleep and pull his sleeping bag over his head. The rock was nothing out of the ordinary, simply a skipping stone possibly used by a group of children upon a visit to a local pond. But that’s when it struck me...the lake. My eyes scanned the backyard that led into the woods, scoping out a shadow or any other anomaly. There was nothing. 

“Mycroft?” my brother stirred, “Close the window, idiot.” 

Before doing so, I took one last look at the stone-where did it come from? 

“What are you waiting for, it’s cold.”

The window creaked as it shut.


End file.
